


Limits of Power, The

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e22 What Kind of Day Has It Been
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-01
Updated: 2006-05-01
Packaged: 2019-05-30 09:56:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15094340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: The President realizes that there is a limit to his executive power. First season finale resolution.





	Limits of Power, The

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

THE LIMITS OF POWER

By Kaydee

 

 

The sound of gunfire exploded all around him. He heard screams as people rushed for cover. His natural impulse was to dive for shelter too. Instead President Josiah Bartlet looked up at the steel and glass skyscrapers. They were huge, oblong buildings with hundreds of windows that overlooked the street where his limousine was parked. Josiah Bartlet realized they provided boundless opportunity for a determined assassin. The President knew he had been mad to think Secret Service could have secured such a vulnerable area.

 

 

He watched with horror as all around him, his staff was falling to the ground. He couldn’t tell if they were hit or diving for safety. Fighting his own fear, he broke into a run toward the center of the disaster area to help them and to search for his daughter. Suddenly he felt strong arms and hands pushing him back. He struggled against them. His mind reeled with shock at the sight of the people he knew and loved scattering and dropping to the ground seeking shelter from the barrage of bullets. He heard screams of panic as the once cheering crowd turned into a mob seeking their own safety.

 

Determined hands pushed him into his waiting limousine. He resisted with all his might. Josiah Bartlet spotted a body lying on the ground and he renewed his fight with his Secret Service agents. He felt as if he was being pushed backward by a strong undertow as the Secret Service tried to keep him from danger. Suddenly he wasn’t the most powerful man on earth. He was a panicked father struggling to free himself from the equally determined hands of his official protectors so that he could find his daughter.

 

"Zoey," he screamed.

 

But the bodies blocked him with full force. He grabbed at one agent’s shirt pulling the man out of his way. The President tried to trip the agent so that he could make a lunge for freedom. But other bodies were piling on him and somebody already inside the car pulled him from behind as still another agent slammed the door shut. Reverberating in his ears was the frantic cry, "who’s down?" One of his agents was shouting "who’s down?"

 

Oh God, he thought.

 

"Zoey," he screamed again. With another burst of energy, he fought back at those in the car trying to restrain him and shove him to the floor of the car for greater cover.

 

"Get him the hell out of here," came the gruff command.

 

Before he could succeed in struggling free and reaching the door handle, the car took off, driving him towards safety, still crying out, "Zoey."

 

Only when the car was well on its way did the desperate father calm down enough to realize that he was bleeding. Suddenly he felt his energy ebb and he succumbed to lightheadedness. "I think I’ve been shot," he said as he leaned back against the seat.

 

"Yes sir, you have," a man’s voice said calmly as he ripped open the President’s shirt, exposing the wounded shoulder. With professional purposefulness, the agent pressed down on the wound, stanching the blood. Quick and efficient hands then dressed and bandaged the wound.

 

"The bullet is probably still lodged in there. It will have to come out when we get to the hospital sir," the voice said matter of factly.

 

Josiah Bartlet, President of the United States, became aware of the police siren. He realized that the highway was being cleared for his speeding vehicle as it drove over the Memorial Bridge back into Washington, DC. Within minutes he was at Walter Reed Army Hospital being transferred into an eerily empty emergency room. A team of surgeons was waiting as he was whisked into surgery.

 

 

The next several days were a blur of pain, anxiety and medication as he drifted in and out of consciousness. When he finally regained full consciousness, his gaze focused on Zoey. She was looking down at her father with love and concern.

 

"Daddy, are you okay?"

 

"Yeah," he said weakly. "How are you?" As he watched her and realized she had not been injured, he said a silent thank you to the God he had always believed in.

 

He eased himself into a sitting position. His shoulder still throbbed. He grimaced slightly and Zoey immediately rushed to aid him. "I can do it myself," he reassured her.

 

Then glancing around, to make sure they were alone, he beckoned her closer. As she leaned over he whispered, "listen, do you think we could keep this from your mother? You know how upset she gets."

 

"Daddy!" Zoey exclaimed

 

He sighed. "I guess not."

 

"You lost a lot of blood," Zoey said with concern.

 

"Yes," he agreed. "But I’m going to be okay." Remembering the lifeless form he had seen on the ground he asked, "how’s Charlie?"

 

Zoey looked down struggling to find words. Finally she said, "he’s hurt bad. After he pushed Gina and me into the car, he was left behind. He was hit and he’s in a coma."

 

"What do the doctors say?" he asked.

 

"They don’t know whether he’ll make it," Zoey sighed.

 

"We’ll have your mother look at him. She’s the best doctor I know," he said gently.

 

"I don’t know if even she can help him." Zoey admitted.

 

Josiah Bartlet just nodded and said nothing.

 

 

Abigail Bartlet was on a fact-finding mission to Afghanistan. She had witnessed atrocities against women. The memories were already haunting her on her long plane ride home. Women just like her who had been proud, competent professionals suddenly forbidden to work. Girls were forbidden to attend school. Women shrouded in heavy burkas that hid their entire bodies including their faces, even in 100-degree heat. Worst of all, women and children denied medical care. All of this was by the decree of the ruling political party the Taliban. It was as if an entire nation had gone mad and declared a holy war against its own mothers, wives, sisters and daughters. Never had Abby felt more helpless. She was a trained doctor with the medical skill to help these women but she was forbidden to by their government. She was the wife of the most powerful man in the world but she was forbidden from speaking out on behalf of these women by her government. The State Department had briefed her on the situation. She understood their strategic need to maintain diplomatic relations with the Taliban in Afghanistan. Still, she hated it. She felt like a prisoner of conscience in a gilded cage. She wanted so badly to speak out on behalf of these people that she had grown to care about. She was aware of the irony that her very position as First Lady had made her more powerless to help them. An ordinary American citizen could have spoken out freely. A president’s wife had to carefully measure her words.

 

Then, in the middle of agonizing over the fate of the women of Afghanistan and her inability to help them, she received the news from home.

 

 

Josiah Bartlet woke from a fitful nap to see Abby leaning over him. "How are you," she asked softly.

 

"I’m fine."

 

"You don’t look fine.

"Well, I suspect that you’ve already read my chart, consulted with my doctors and can give me a full report on how I am," he said wryly.

 

Abby smiled.

 

"I knew I should have paid off the Secret Service to keep this from you," he said.

 

"But I have unnamed sources in the CIA," she immediately answered.

 

"Yes, you probably do," he said. "After all, who could resist your charms?"

 

Abby laughed. His spirits were good and that was an excellent sign.

 

Josiah asked his wife, "have you seen Charlie yet?"

 

She nodded. "He’s still in a coma. I’ve done a thorough examination and consulted with his attending physician." Abby became all business.

 

"And?" Jed asked.

 

She shook her head. "It’s too soon to tell."

 

"It’s been three days," Jed protested.

 

"Jed," Abby said slowly, carefully measuring her words. "There’s a possibility that he might never fully recover."

 

"What!"

 

"Even if he survives — and that’s a big if ö there’s no guarantee that he’ll ever come out of the coma."

 

"How is that possible?" Jed asked.

 

"It’s one of the mysteries of medicine, why some people recover and others don’t. But he could be comatose for years."

 

"You mean be a vegetable?" Jed asked bluntly.

 

Abby just sighed and nodded. "Or it’s equally possible that he’ll snap out of it spontaneously. We just don’t know. But right now it doesn’t look very good."

 

Jed allowed this to sink in. He thought of his daughter and how devastated she must be by this news. A sense of helplessness overwhelmed him.

 

 

Josh, Sam and CJ were visiting the President. They were seated around his bed. CJ’s wrist was bandaged and her arm was in a sling. Josh was explaining how CJ had been wounded in action .

 

"We all dived for cover and Sam here just landed right on top of CJ." Josh leaned over and punched Sam lightly on the shoulder. "Way to go hero."

 

"Hey," Sam interrupted indignantly. "I was a human shield. I willingly sacrificed my body to protect her from flying bullets."

 

CJ rolled her eyes as President Bartlet laughed. "Sir," she said, "it’s so good to see you smile that I willingly offer my injured wrist to that cause."

 

"It’s so nice to have a staff willing to sacrifice body parts for my amusement," President Bartlet said.

 

"Speaking of which, how is your shoulder sir?" CJ asked.

 

"It’s getting there, thanks," the President said.

 

"We’ve seen Charlie too," Sam said.

 

"How is he?" the President asked, interest lighting his eyes.

 

"Not good," CJ said shaking her head. "Your wife said it helps to talk to him." CJ explained what Abby had told her. Some doctors believe that even in coma people may be able to hear and understand conversation. They hope that talking to the comatose might help them to recover. "So, we’ve all been taking turns talking to him. Toby’s with him now."

 

President Bartlet looked startled. "You’re actually letting Toby talk to him alone and unmonitored?"

 

"Yes sir," Sam said. "We know that could depress them both. But it was Toby’s turn and he really wanted to do something to help. We sort of ran out of excuses to keep him out."

 

President Bartlet nodded his understanding. "I should visit Charlie too."

 

"Sir, you look tired," CJ observed.

 

"I am," the President leaned back in his pillows.

 

"We should be going," CJ said. The others all rose from their seats around the bed.

 

"Not yet," the President said. He waved them back down. President Bartlet paused and swallowed hard. He looked as if he was searching for the right words. He began to talk slowly. "I have something to confess to all of you." He paused again and carefully watched their faces. Finally he said it. "I dread leaving here."

 

The others just looked at him. Josh nodded for him to go on.

 

"I don’t know how to act or even how to feel," he admitted. "Before, I always felt a rapport with the crowd. You know how I loved campaigning and being in touch with people. Pressing the flesh, as they say. How do I shake hands, look people in the eye and smile for the cameras when I’ll be thinking that every stranger in the crowd could be a potential assassin?"

 

A new voice answered. "Sir, in the back of your mind, you always knew about that possibility," They all looked up startled to see Leo standing in the doorway. He was on crutches and his leg was in a cast. He walked in and Josh rose to give him a seat. Leo nodded a grateful acknowledgement as he eased himself into the chair and continued, "you always knew going into this that assassination was a real threat."

 

The President shook his head. I don’t want to live my life being afraid of every smiling face, every extended hand. So, what do I do?"

 

"What you’ve been doing," Leo answered levelly. "You take precautions."

 

President Bartlet shook his head again. "There’s a basic trust that’s been ripped to shreds"

 

"Then you work it through." Leo looked at him shrewdly. "And you work through the guilt too."

 

The President and Leo just stared at each other. The President’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. The tension between the two of them crackled like static on a live wire. Finally, Leo broke the gaze and turned to the others. "Now we really will be going," he said with authority. Turning back to the President he said," you look tired. Please get some rest, sir."

 

"Okay," President Bartlet said. "Oh, just one more thing."

 

"Yes sir." Leo said.

 

"As a personal favor to me, please get somebody to go upstairs and get Toby out of Charlie’s room."

 

Leo looked exasperated. "You mean they left Toby alone with Charlie? To talk to him unmonitored?"

 

Josh looked down and mumbled, "we, uh, ran out of excuses to keep him out."

 

Leo just shook his head. "Yes sir," we’ll give both Charlie and Toby a well deserved break." As they all left the room, Leo was still shaking his head and muttering "I leave you guys for five minutes and you let Toby loose with Charlie."

 

 

 

Toby sat beside Charlie’s bed. He watched the life support machinery. His mind was blank as he observed the young man. "I, um, I’m supposed to talk to you. To keep you entertained so that maybe you’ll hear something and come back to consciousness. Of course, that’s just a theory," he began awkwardly. "They don’t really know if it works." His brooding dark eyes fastened on the CT scan monitoring Charlie’s brainwave pattern. "I can’t think of why you would want to come back," he admitted. "There’ll be pain when you’re conscious. There’s always pain when you’re alive. But Charlie, there’s also incredible pleasure. Like Zoey. She’s gorgeous. And she sits outside your room every moment that she’s not in here, waiting for you. That’s incentive enough to come back.

 

"And the President. There’s a lot he’d like to say to you. And of course you don’t know what your sister might want to tell you. Please don’t leave the people who love you without giving them a chance to tell you the things they meant to say," Toby said softly. "It’s the one regret they never get over, you know."

 

The others stood outside the door in silence. Sam was going to interrupt when Leo stopped him with a look and slight shake of his head. They all waited.

 

Toby slowly turned around. "How long have you guys been here?" he asked.

 

"Not long," Leo said. He came in and gently put a hand on Toby’s shoulder. "Let’s turn Charlie back over to Zoey," he said.

 

Toby nodded and rose. They all left together.

 

 

President Bartlet was dressing under the professional gaze of his wife. He knew that she was making a doctor’s objective assessment of his condition. His doctors had cleared him to leave the hospital. After examining his chart, Abby agreed.

 

While he dressed a Secret Service agent gave him a briefing on the assassination attempt.

 

"Sir," said Special Agent Alan Rast, "we’ve arrested the gunman. He’s a member of the Montana Militia. He’s been under observation for several years."

 

"Several years?" the President said incredulously.

 

Special Agent Rast nodded his head. "Yes sir. He’s got a long criminal record. In fact, he and the other members of the Militia are believed to have met while serving time in a penitentiary. And he’s been tied to a series of fatal bombings and hate crimes out west."

 

The President nodded as he allowed the information to sink in. "And what about the younger skinhead?"

 

"Actually," Rast hesitated for a moment. "He’s harmless."

 

Both the President and Abigail Bartlet looked startled. President Bartlet spoke, "but he’s been stalking Zoey for months."

 

The Secret Service agent looked both amused and embarrassed. "As far as we can determined he meant her no harm. It seems that he’s an admirer of yours and he just had a crush on her.

 

"What!" the President exclaimed in disbelief.

 

"Yes sir. He follows her around because he has a crush on her. He’s not even a skinhead. He had leukemia and the bald head was because of chemotherapy."

 

"I don’t believe this," President Bartlet muttered.

 

"Yes sir, it turns out he’s a liberal."

 

"Oh brother, did we get that one wrong."

 

Yes sir," Special Agent Rast agreed. "And sir," he added, "if it wasn’t for him, we might not have caught the real assassin. He’s the one who spotted him first. And even more importantly, he’ll be able to identify him at the trial. He’s a brave fellow for being so willing to do it publicly. He’ll need protection afterwards"

 

President Bartlet thanked the Secret Service agent for the briefing and finished dressing.

 

 

As he was finishing up, he noticed that Abby hadn’t said a word to him since the Secret Service agent had left. She stared at him in stony silence.

 

"Abby are you going to talk to me," he finally asked. He met her baleful stare. "Please tell me what’s bothering you?"

 

She got up and walked across the room silently. She checked the door to make sure that it was firmly shut. Finally gathering all of her courage and self-control she began.

 

"You," she said firmly. "You are bothering me."

 

He stared at her as if she had lost her mind.

 

She continued. "Jed, there’s no way to tell you how furious I am at you. You deliberately risked our daughter’s safety and your own. And there’s a young man down the hall lying in a coma because you refused to follow Secret Service procedure."

 

"Who told you that?" Jed’s voice was cold.

 

"That doesn’t matter."

 

"Was it Leo?"

 

"No."

 

"And you’re not going to say who it was?"

 

"You’re changing the subject. Don’t look for any other bad guy here."

 

"So, I’m the bad guy?"

 

"Secret Service has an iron clad routine they follow. In a crowd situation they always, always take the President to his car in an underground garage. They sweep the area for bombs beforehand and then secure it. You should have been where there were no windows or crowds. You were at the Newseum for God’s sake. You should have been underground and safe."

 

Jed shook his head stubbornly. "I can’t live like that Abby. I can’t hide from the public. I’m their president."

 

"You deliberately countermanded the Secret Service standard operating procedure just to campaign. You even decided to walk the line and shake hands just to get more brownie points because you’re finally ahead in a poll."

 

"Is that what you think it is?"

 

"It doesn’t matter what I think."

 

"It’s not about opinion polls and popularity contests. It’s about people feeling that their president is accessible. That he’s not hiding out in a bunker."

 

"A young man is in a coma because of your abstract ideals." Abby turned away from him. "It could have been your daughter."

 

As Jed stared silently at his wife’s back, he barely heard her whisper, "God Jed, do you think I want to risk losing you like that?"

 

 

Later that day, in the Oval Office, the President stared out the window. He watched a bird hop through the branches of a tulip magnolia tree. It had been a beautiful spring day. Azaleas were blooming in the gardens around the White House. A knock at the door interrupted his reverie. "Come in," he called.

 

Leo entered. "Are you ready for the press conference?"

 

"As ready as I’ll be." The President was pensive.

 

"Sir, you’re going to have to look more upbeat than that to convince the American people that business is back to usual. They have been worried."

 

President Bartlet nodded distractedly.

 

Leo took a seat across from the President’s desk. "Sir, talk to me, please?"

 

"Leo did I do wrong?" President Bartlet suddenly asked.

 

"Wrong sir?"

 

Josiah Bartlet told his best friend about his argument with Abby.

 

"Mr. President," Leo began carefully, "you did what you believed to be right. You couldn't have foreseen an attack."

 

"The Secret Service warned me of the risks. I still countermanded them."

 

"And you’ll have to take those risks again if you want to be re-elected," Leo reminded him. "You can’t sit out the re-election campaign in the Rose Garden."

 

"No," the President said grimly, "Jimmy Carter proved that the Rose Garden strategy has limited effectiveness."

 

"Yes sir."

 

"Leo"

 

"Yes sir?"

 

"A lot of innocent people have to live with the consequences of my decisions."

 

"Yes sir. That’s the nature of your job. It won’t change."

 

"Yes, Leo." Suddenly the President sounded very tired.

 

"Leo, I want us to push for stronger gun control legislation."

 

"We didn’t have the votes the last time and we won’t have them now," Leo warned. He remembered how tough that fight had been and how close they had come to losing and seriously weakening the new Presidency.

 

"We’re stronger now."

 

"This week we are."

 

"You know, Leo, the type of gun used was one of the same ones we were trying to ban. But we compromised."

 

"Sir, you can’t blame yourself any more for that than for making the decision to have the car out in the open and then to work the crowd."

 

"I can’t blame myself any less either."

 

"Sir you couldn’t have gotten the gun legislation you wanted then."

 

"But we’ll get it now," President Bartlet said.

 

Leo sighed. He knew he worked for a stubborn man who would not let this go as long as he continued to blame himself. "We will get it now," Leo promised.

 

"And Leo?"

 

"Yes sir?"

 

"I want to call it the Charlie Young Assault Weapons Ban," said the President. "That way none of us forgets."

 

"Yes sir."

 

There was a knock at the door. CJ poked her head in. "Sir, it’s time for your press conference.

 

President Bartlet rose. He buttoned his jacket and said confidently, "Come on, Leo. Let’s go out there and kick butt."

 

Leo smiled. "Yes sir, let’s do that." They both strode out with the President leading the way, his energy returning with every step.

 

 

Zoey stubbornly stayed at Charlie’s side speaking to him, filling him in on gossip, reading from his favorite books. She did anything she could think of to elicit some response from him. Each day her hope ebbed a little more. Every day that her father watched her his own hope faded. President Bartlet finally announced that he was going to visit Charlie.

 

 

He sat in Charlie’s room watching the monitors, listening to the steady hum of the machinery.

 

"Charlie," the President began in a faltering voice, "I’m so sorry if my stubbornness did this to you." He knew that he was speaking more to himself than to Charlie. Despite everyone’s hope that Charlie might hear and respond, President Bartlet knew that it was becoming a more remote possibility with each passing day. He realized that he was simply unburdening his own personal demons of guilt, failure and inadequacy in the privacy of a room that held only a motionless young man unable to hear him.

 

The President continued talking. He didn’t notice the subtle change in the sound of one of the monitors. Instead of its usual whir, there were several blips. The machine that followed Charlie’s brainwave pattern suddenly began registering deeper more frequent waves. The President, however, was so engrossed in his thoughts that he never saw or heard the changes. When he paused in his speech, he was startled to hear a weak voice beside him.

 

"Sir, in the interest of fair disclosure, I ought to warn you that I’ve heard everything you’ve said for the last few minutes."

 

President Bartlet jumped. "Charlie?"

 

"Sir, you’ll pardon me if I don’t stand up."

 

The young man struggled to sit up. The President rose and was swiftly by his side. "Here Charlie, let me help you." He slid his arm under Charlie’s neck and back and eased the younger man into a sitting position. He propped up Charlie’s pillows.

 

"Sir, you have a good bedside manner," Charlie commented.

 

"It comes with being married to a doctor," President Bartlet wore a broad grin on his face. "How are you feeling?"

 

"Weak sir." Charlie paused. "Sir, Zoey?" he asked hesitantly.

 

"Zoey has been here with you every day."

 

A huge smile spread across Charlie’s face.

 

"Let me get her for you." President Bartlet rose and went to the door. "Zoey," he called out. "Come here please. I need your help."

 

Zoey came racing with a worried look. "Is it Charlie?"

 

The President silently held the door open and let her run past him. Her eyes fell on Charlie and her face broke into a smile as bright as the sun breaking through a bank of clouds and lighting up the world with its warmth and joy. "Oh Charlie," she hugged him. She pulled up a chair beside the bed. She bent her head close to his. The President seeing the intimacy between them quietly slipped out of the room.

 

 

"Daddy," Zoey poked her head out the door. President Bartlet looked up. Zoey motioned him. "Charlie wants to talk to you again."

 

Zoey walked out.

 

President Bartlet approached the bed. Charlie’s strength seemed to be returning. "What is it?" the President asked.

 

"Zoey told me you had good news for me?"

 

"Yes," President Bartlet smiled. He pulled over a chair and sat down. He eyed Charlie, trying to determine if the young man was strong enough to hear what he had to say. "We found your mother’s killer," the President said cautiously, measuring the effect.

 

Shock registered on Charlie’s face.

 

"Charlie, are you okay for me to continue?"

 

Charlie nodded. As the full impact sank in, the shock turned to disbelieving relief. "How?" He asked.

"He was about to kill another police officer. The situation was very similar to your mother’s. He was caught in a hold up. When the police ordered him to drop his weapon, he opened fire on them instead. Only this time, he was the one shot. " President Bartlet paused.

 

"Because both situations were so similar, somebody in Ballistics got curious and ran some tests on both sets of bullets. It was a lucky guess but they matched." He let the full impact sink in with Charlie.

 

"Is he dead?" Charlie’s voice was flat.

 

"The President nodded.

 

"Then he’ll never stand trial for shooting my mother," Charlie said bitterly.

 

"I’m afraid not. But he’ll also never kill anybody else’s mother."

 

Charlie nodded. "Thank you sir."

 

Charlie hesitated. "Sir," he said timidly.

 

"Yes."

 

"I appreciate all that you’ve done for me, but I have one more favor to ask."

 

"What is it Charlie?"

 

"Well, seeing as how I survived the shooting, could you rename your bill something else, not the Charlie Young Assault Weapons Ban?"

 

"Zoey told you about that?" President Bartlet looked a little sheepish.

 

Charlie nodded. "I gotta live in this town. I don’t need people pointing at me and whispering everywhere I go."

 

"Fair enough Charlie."

 

"Thank you sir."

 

 

The bill was renamed the Roslyn Assault Weapons Ban. It was linked indelibly in the public’s mind with the assassination attempt. The bill became ground zero in the controversy over gun control in Congress. The NRA lobbied hard to kill it. They called in I.O.U.s from every lawmaker they could. Conservative members of both parties struggled to balance their political debts to the gun lobby against their constituents’ demand for protection from gun violence. The President let it be known through his staff that he would not back down this time. There would be no compromises. No deals. He was willing to put the prestige of his Administration on the line. He also sent word to members of his own party: This one was important! This one was personal!

 

 

The bill passed by a narrow majority. The Bartlet Administration held the bill signing ceremony in the Rose Garden on a sweltering July day just before Congress broke for their summer recess. It was President Bartlet’s moment of triumph. The media was saying that he was at the height of his strength and power. After the cameras caught the signing and the speeches, there was a reception. As the reporters, politicians and other guests celebrated, the President stood off to one side, a drink in his hand pensively watching the cheerful crowd.

 

"Excuse me sir. You seem a little subdued," a voice at his side said. The President turned to see Danny Concannon, a leading White House correspondent.

 

President Bartlet smiled. "Just observing the crowd."

 

"You put a lot on the line for this sir," Danny’s eyes studied him shrewdly. "You’re the man of the hour. You should be enjoying your success."

 

President Bartlet looked at his drink and remained silent.

 

"The press is saying you’re the most powerful president since LBJ passed the Civil Rights Act in 1964. You took on the gun lobby and won. Nobody’s ever done that before."

 

The President shook his head. "Danny, when I was in the hospital I watched my aide in a coma. I watched my daughter’s heart breaking for him. Every day I was overwhelmed by my own sense of helplessness. And by guilt because a decision I made put him there"

 

"Countermanding Secret Service procedure?"

 

The President looked at him startled. "You knew?"

 

"Yes sir. Everybody in the press corps knew. It’s standard operating procedure."

 

"You never wrote about it."

 

"Sometimes we’re not the bad guys. We decided it wasn’t newsworthy that day." Danny gave him a crooked grin.

 

"I countermanded the Secret Service." The President repeated. "I haven’t figured out how to live with that guilt. And how to avoid doing it again. I can’t avoid public contact if I’m going to run again. But I can’t get back that thread of trust I once had with the public. Every time I go out now, I look for the next assassin in the crowd."

 

Danny thought for a moment. Then he looked the President in the eye and said, "sir, perhaps coming to terms with the limits of power is the beginning of wisdom. It will make you an even better president."

 

"Thank you Danny," President Bartlet said quietly.

 

Then there were more photo ops to pose for, more questions to take from reporters, more well-wishers hands to shake. Finally, Josiah Bartlet recognized that he had won a hard fought battle. He allowed himself to savor his victory. He knew he deserved that. But at the same time, he went through the necessary mourning for something that would remain lost forever.

  



End file.
